


when the days are cold and the cards all fold

by noelia_g



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, D/s, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is being uncharacteristically mellow and affectionate, Grantaire is increasingly confused, and pretty much everyone has issues they really should discuss (what else is new?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	when the days are cold and the cards all fold

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: I have been referring to this fic as "hurt/comfort with no hurt" and "kink fic with no kink" while writing, however, both emotional hurt and kink are mentioned during the course of the story. The fic describes post-mortem of a humiliation scene gone awry, with dominant Enjolras safewording due to Grantaire's obvious discomfort. The scene itself is not described in detail and the specifics of what is said are not mentioned. The majority of the fic is unashamed fluff, though. I didn't want to tag the fic as D/s and Humilation as there's little of it in the fic and they are not at all the focus of the story, but I don't want to spring the content on anyone without warning either.

Enjolras is not a morning person.

To be fair, he isn’t any time of day person particularly; he has a tendency to forget mortals are bound by such simple things like the need for sleep or sustenance, and he works around the clock until he’s done or until he crashes and falls asleep where he’s sitting (or, on one memorable occasion, standing). 

It’s not much of a surprise when Grantaire wakes up alone in Enjolras’ decadently giant bed; he’s quite used to it, and it usually means Enjolras has been swallowed by paperwork or went to get coffee and checked his messages on the way and then there was someone Being Wrong somewhere in the world, and, well. You get used to it, and it has a capacity for entertainment if that poor deluded someone is especially Wrong.

But it’s not the case today. The apartment is eerily quiet, with no sounds of furious typing and no coffee maker running. It sounds, feels, empty. By Grantaire’s count, this should be Enjolras’ day off, but Enjolras’ schedule is a monster with sudden growth tendencies and the ability to spout appendages at a moment’s notice. 

He sighs and rolls over onto his stomach, into the cold side of the bed, burrowing his face in the pillow. He slept well enough and long enough, but he’s still tired in a way, sore all over (the good kind, mostly), and no matter how well Enjolras tried to clean him up last night, he’s still in a dire need of shower.

It certainly helps that Enjolras’ shower is a work of art. He’s not quite the one to care for creature comforts, but where it matters: coffee, bed, shower; Enjolras knows how to indulge himself and Grantaire is more than happy to take advantage of that. The first spray of cold water is nothing short of a rough awakening, but by the time it heats up, with the absolutely divine pressure, Grantaire is ready to purr. Not even the stinging sensation in the places where his skin is rough and reddened and scratched is enough to distract him from the pleasure.

Enjolras’ voice, however, is. “You’re awake,” he says, stepping into the bathroom. He probably knocked, but Grantaire wasn’t paying much attention. 

“Sorry?” Grantaire offers insincerely and smiles when Enjolras shakes his head at him, already shedding his clothes. “I thought you left,” he points out, even as he’s unashamedly watching the show.

“I did,” Enjolras says, moving into the shower next to Grantaire. This is the second (first) best thing about the thing; it’s more than big enough for two and also something Grantaire loves taking advantage of. “I hoped to be back before you woke up. I realise the gravity of my mistake,” he adds, bowing his head to kiss Grantaire’s shoulder. He sounds teasing, yes, but also unexpectedly serious. 

“You can make it up to me,” he allows magnanimously and Enjolras nods with all seriousness, stepping behind him and reaching for the shampoo. He tugs at Grantaire’s hair gently, in stark contrast to how he pulled at them last night. 

Both kinds are nice, though, you won’t find Grantaire complaining.

Enjolras’ hands aren’t exactly gentle right now, as he lathers Grantaire’s hair; fingers tangling deep and fingernails scratching his scalp, but they are still reverent, somehow. Grantaire can’t stop the low sounds of content originating in his throat, and he doesn’t particularly want to. 

Enjolras’s touch lingers long past the necessary time it takes to simply wash Grantaire’s hair and the water loses some of its heat by the time he moves on to washing the rest of Grantaire, especially careful with his wrists and ankles. They haven’t done anything yesterday that would break his skin or draw blood, but the cuffs left his skin a little tender to the touch and Enjolras is well aware. 

“I’m fine,” Grantaire assures him even as Enjolras is brushing his lips over the inside of Grantaire’s wrist. He gets an acknowledging nod in return, but there’s something underneath Enjolras’ perfectly calm expression that suggests he isn’t quite convinced. “Are you gonna make me talk about this? Because I’d like to have it on record that I consider it patently unfair, I raised no issues, it’s you who...”

“We can talk later,” Enjolras allows, and wow, he’s usually not one to step down so easily. Grantaire narrows his eyes at him; this could very well be a trap. Enjolras rolls his eyes. “We _are_ going to talk about it though,” he adds pointedly and yeah, that’s the Enjolras Grantaire knows and loves and occasionally wants to punch out because honestly, there’s nothing to talk about, _Grantaire_ wasn’t the one to freak out. For once. 

But a ceasefire, however temporary it might be, is nothing to sneer at, so he lets Enjolras maneuver him out of the shower and swaddle him in fluffy towels and kiss him on the nose. The record should probably state that the kiss was aimed at Grantaire’s lips, but Grantaire moved, and it landed where it did. Enjolras seems disgruntled with the cutesy dimension of the whole thing, so it’s kind of great.

And just as he’s allowed Enjolras to be careful and tentative before, now Enjolras lets him be rough and careless; tug him close and kiss him hard, open mouthed and loose, and then bite his way down Enjolras’ jaw and neck, make him groan in turn. Enjolras moves into his space, hands roaming, and it’s only when the bathroom starts cooling off and the chill gets to Enjolras, especially considering he’s still naked, that he remembers himself and steps back, still breathing harshly.

“Back to bed?” Grantaire suggests innocently, though he already knows the answer.

“Yeah, go,” Enjolras nods. 

So, okay, Grantaire didn’t know the answer.

“I’ll join you in a moment.” And wonders continue not to cease. 

It’s not that it’s particularly difficult to convince Enjolras to stay in bed for a little longer, Grantaire has a couple of failsafe tactics for that one; but to get him back once he got up, to have him consider lazying around and making out while he could be working at being a productive member of society (or at subverting the society’s status quo; it really depends on the day) - that’s huge.

“Have I forgotten someone’s birthday? Have I forgotten _my_ birthday?” he asks and then adds mournfully, “again?”

“I’m sure not even you could manage that feat twice in the span of three months,” Enjolras tells him flatly and, to add insult to injury, puts his pants back on. Grantaire is in mourning. “Do you want coffee?”

“But seriously,” Grantaire mutters.

“That’s not a complicated question, R, do you want coffee with your breakfast?”

“There’s breakfast now?” Grantaire asks incredulously, and then frowns. “You didn’t make it, did you?”

“Fuck you, I’m perfectly capable of making breakfast,” Enjolras tells him pleasantly and Grantaire holds his tongue and doesn’t remind him of the Bacon Incident. “But yeah, I bought pastries,” he adds, glaring at Grantaire as if to dare him to comment. 

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re thinking it,” Enjolras mutters darkly, and then completely ruins the perfectly good glare he has going by kissing the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. Grantaire grins against his lips and then lets himself be pushed towards the bed. 

Compared to the bathroom, the bedroom is freezing cold, and he buries himself under the covers immediately. He’d even consider putting on some clothes, or maybe stealing Enjolras’ pajama pants, but that’d be counterproductive to his new tactic of getting Enjolras to warm him up once he gets back in. He’s really hopeful about this particular strategy, especially since Enjolras seems to be in a rather obliging mood.

It’s not entirely unheard of but still not all that common. It’s fine, Grantaire knew what he was getting into with his boyfriend, but that just makes these moments all the better. 

And fuck, it’s not that Enjolras is not caring or thoughtful or occasionally even romantic, Grantaire would hate for anyone to think he’s complaining. But he’s rarely this relaxed, indulgent. Towards Grantaire, but most of all, to himself. 

The scent of coffee wafts through the door and Enjolras soon follows, carrying a tray. Grantaire had a joke ready, but frankly, it was too easy and also, breathing is anything but, because Enjolras still hasn’t put on a shirt. 

Enjolras sits on the side of the bed and places the tray between them, picking up his mug as he shifts to lean against the headboard. 

“You bought me donuts?’ Grantaire marvels. He’s pretty sure he knows what bakery they’re from, too, and if Enjolras actually walked three blocks in this weather to get them...

“I have been reliably informed apologies are better with donuts.”

“You realise I was drunk then and shouldn’t be accountable for what I said and honestly, that was three years ago, Enjolras, let it go,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling.

“That would be reasonable if you didn’t actually mean every word you say when you’re drunk. It’s your filters that cease to function, not your brain,” Enjolras points out and breaks off a piece of a glazed donut, licking his fingers after he swallows because he is a cruel, cruel person. 

Grantaire lets go of that particular argument; they’ve been over this too many times to count and there are other matters pressing. “And I’m pretty sure you have nothing to apologise for. If I remember the manual correctly, and I’m pretty sure I do because you’ve made me discuss safewords ad nauseam, Enjolras, you do not apologise for safewording.”

And yeah, so apparently they _are_ talking about this, he was right about there being a trap and it’s set up with donuts and coffee that’s too good to exist. 

He can’t even be all that annoyed, because _donuts and coffee in bed_ , okay. 

“I know,” Enjolras says impatiently. “It’s not that. I’m sorry for what I said.”

It takes Grantaire a moment to figure out and then he doesn’t quite know whether he wants to laugh or flick Enjolras in the ear. “You said nothing I didn’t ask for. Or, at times, even beg for, if memory serves.”

Enjolras, ever anal retentive, especially in these matters, made him sit through an uncomfortable discussion and spell out what it was exactly that he wanted Enjolras to do and say. Really, there was such a thing as over-preparedness and Enjolras excelled at that.

“And yet,” Enjolras says quietly.

And yet, okay. Maybe Grantaire wasn’t _quite_ prepared to hear all of that from Enjolras, but if the words hit too close to home, well, that wasn’t Enjolras’ fault, that was all Grantaire’s brain, up to its usual tricks. And it wasn’t _bad_ per se either. He still was turned on like you wouldn’t believe that was _the whole point_. 

When you play with floggers and whips and knives, sometimes it’s too hard, but it still hits the right spot. And sometimes words cut deep too, but that’s what he was asking for.

“I’m fine,” he insists. Enjolras doesn’t look convinced at all. “I know you didn’t mean any of it.”

He’s apparently not very convincing, judging by the look on Enjolras’ face. He takes a gulp of his coffee and seems to be mulling over the words as he watches Grantaire. “Do you?” he asks and Grantaire shrugs.

“Of course,” he offers lightly. “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise, I’m not _that_ fucked up.”

The displeasure is quick to show on Enjolras’ face and he moves closer to the centre of the bed, pushing the tray away, reaching out to catch Grantaire’s fingers in his. “I’ve said some of those things before.”

“And you might have meant them then,” Grantaire agrees. That’s a part why he asked for that; Enjolras’ words have always been cutting and never untrue and there’s comfort in knowing Enjolras doesn’t mean them anymore but that’s also why they’re so effective, why they cut so well. “Unless you still do?”

He’s relieved to see the horrified expression on Enjolras’ face, if a bit guilty too. He can’t bring himself to completely regret it, though, because Enjolras starts moving swiftly, picking up the tray to place it on the floor, stealing the mug from Grantaire’s hand and placing it on the nightstand, before he crowds into Grantaire’s space and kisses him, ‘of course not’ whispered against his lips. 

Grantaire wiggles his way down the bed and pulls Enjolras closer, letting him wrap himself all over Grantaire. He’s moved on to muttering endearments into Grantaire’s neck, assurances Grantaire doesn’t quite _need_ but welcomes all the same, because he’ll never in a million years tire of Enjolras telling him he loves him, that Grantaire is the best thing to happen to him.

They’ll have to agree to disagree on that last one, but the words aren’t as alien and strange as they used to be and his mind and his heart and his stomach no longer rebel at them; he barely flinches and lets Enjolras kiss away the weak protests. 

“Also,” he mutters, and it could be minutes later but it could have stretched into hours, hard to tell. Enjolras raises his head and waits, almost patiently, if you didn’t count the way his hand is moving over Grantaire’s hip. “Donuts don’t count as a breakfast.”

Enjolras laughs into his neck and promises to take him out for proper lunch, so Grantaire counts that as a win.

***

Unsurprisingly, it turns out to be a very late lunch. Enjolras was prepared for this, but not _quite_ ready for how incredibly difficult it is to leave the warmth of the bed. There’s still the consolation of Grantaire pressed closely against him as they make their way to Grantaire’s favourite place, the one that serves breakfast food 24/7. 

They argue about the destination, of course, but Enjolras puts up a fight mainly for show, knowing he’ll give in. He honestly doesn’t care that much, but even if he did, he knows today he’d give in to anything Grantaire asked of him.

He also knows that Grantaire wouldn’t take well to him admitting it, so arguing it is.

And when it’s like this, light and unimportant, just for the sake of it, arguing with Grantaire is one of his favourite things to do, especially when Grantaire’s hand never leaves his, not even when he gestures wildly with the other. 

“So,” Grantaire drawls after he polishes off his plate. The same activities that made them late for lunch that could still be reasonably called lunch have also made them work up quite an appetite. “Plans.”

“For?” Enjolras shoots back easily. “I have been revising my five years plan to...”

“For the rest of the afternoon, smartass,” he says flatly and raises his hand before Enjolras can even open his mouth. “If you say anything about my usual appreciation for your ass, I’m going to kick it.”

“Well, you’re welcome to try,” Enjolras says pleasantly. “I’m meeting for coffee with Feuilly and then driving him to the airport, after that I’m free.”

“Isn’t Feuilly taking the bus to the airport?”

“I’m sure that’s what he thinks,” Enjolras nods. 

“You make it difficult to tell when you’re being thoughtful and when you’re planning world domination, you know.”

“I’ve been told. And you?”

“No one ever accused me of planning world domination, any kind of such occurrence will be entirely accidental, I assure you,” Grantaire says, his lips twitching at Enjolras’ look. “Beginners class at five, the self-defence class afterwards has been cancelled by popular demand; I think most of them are going to some concert thing, so I’m free. Was planning on maybe painting for a while but I’m willing to discuss options.”

“I can come over later,” Enjolras says and pretends not to notice that Grantaire looks surprised. “Unless...?”

“No, no, mi casa and all that shit. Seriously. Come over, whenever you want,” Grantaire says quickly, and looks like he wants to add something else but doesn’t.

This wouldn't bother him most of the time; he's almost certain this is just Grantaire being surprised at the change in routine. But there's guilt swimming close to the surface now, awoken yesterday and buzzing right under his skin, and being almost certain is simply not enough right now. 

He’s had reservations before they started, and he probably should have been more adamant about it, but the thing is, he’s been wary of many things they have tried before they tried them and most of the times he was more than proved wrong. He’s been wary about ordering Grantaire around, and that has clearly worked out pretty well. He’s been wary about bondage beyond ties and blindfolds, and _that_... well. He can’t complain. He’s been more than doubtful when Grantaire brought up the idea of service submission and while that’s still not his kink at all, Grantaire’s reactions are, his satisfaction is, his happiness _is_ , and that was all there. 

So despite the way his chest tightened and his gut turned, he decided to give it a try, because Grantaire asked, because he laughed and said “I know you don’t understand, stop making that face. It just gets to me, you know? Call it exorcising demons or call it a weird kink, it still turns me on.”

He wasn’t lying about that, at least, but it was far from full disclosure. It got to Grantaire in a variety of ways, and not all of them good. He _was_ painfully hard against Enjolras’ thigh, that much was true, but he was also... subdued, in ways that went beyond submission. Closed off, serious, not a smug grin or a smart remark to be seen or heard. It was enough to give Enjolras pause, but then Grantaire honest to god _flinched_ away from him; not from discomfort or pain (that had its place and its uses) but merely from Enjolras’ words.

Enjolras might have been the one nominally in control, the one with the power, but he felt that acutely, painful and ugly, and more than he could bear. He practically spat out the safeword, repeating it a few more times after that, calmer, softer, already undoing the cuffs on Grantaire’s wrists, kissing his palms in apology. 

Grantaire was the one to speak softly to him, the one to pull him close and card his fingers through Enjolras’ hair. He was, Enjolras could tell, confused and worried, worried _for Enjolras_ and that was somehow even worse.

He knows Grantaire wouldn’t want him to second-guess this, to make it more than it was, but he can’t help it. Because maybe yesterday it’s been about the fact that humiliation play turns Grantaire on, but Enjolras has said those words before, some of them, and in the heat of an argument, he meant them. He knew better, he didn’t mean them, but still meant them. 

Repeating them yesterday, whatever the context, wasn’t freeing, it was terrible. And Grantaire can shake them off and laugh about it but Enjolras can’t, they’re fresh in his memory and heavy in his throat.

He can’t help thinking about them still as he heads to Grantaire’s place. Feuilly accused him of being distracted and questioned his ability to drive to the airport, which of course meant that Enjolras drove him there and also drove him insane by sticking exactly to the speed limit and stopping every time the light just turned yellow and refusing to just pull over and double park and let Feuilly ‘get off right here, it’ll be quick, no, really, Enjolras, you don’t have to drive into the parking lot and...’

He lets himself in; there’s loud music he can hear through the door, so Grantaire is probably lost to the world and might be for a while yet. Enjolras rather hopes it won’t be for _that_ much longer, because Grantaire’s choice in music when he paints is atrocious; bubblegum pop and cartoons’ theme songs and the worst of country hits. ‘It dulls the mind,’ he says and Enjolras certainly doesn’t disagree with that, he just doesn’t know how can that be a good thing.

But there’s the good part about Grantaire’s painting rituals, and that is that he usually takes off more clothes than is reasonable or decent in the process. He starts barefoot by design, because he hates shoes at home and socks bother him without shoes. Then somehow in the middle he takes off his shirt when the sleeves get in the way. If the undershirt is white, it’ll go with it, because ‘he’ll inevitably ruin it.’ Then there’s the part where his jeans ride a little low, the fact that he messes his hair up in the process somehow, that he’ll always end up with colourful smudges on his arms over the black of his tattoos...

It’s a good show, Enjolras would recommend it one hundred percent, if he wasn’t so possessive of it. 

He makes sure to be reasonably quiet as he takes off his coat and discards his shoes. Grantaire probably wouldn’t notice even if Enjolras was making noise on purpose, but he still loathes to disturb him. There’s a pile of books on the coffee table, as usual, and Enjolras picks one at random, settling in on the couch. He has files in his bag, if this lasts for longer, but he’d rather not work tonight. 

Especially since he’s too distracted to even concentrate on the paperback he picked up. It takes him reading the same paragraph three times and not comprehending a single word because he keeps looking up at Grantaire to stop, give in and drop the pretence. 

He’s still amazed by the fluidity of Grantaire’s movement when he’s like this; when he’s dancing or boxing or painting, when he’s unhindered, not bound by doubts or dark thoughts. Enjolras thinks himself privileged every time he’s allowed to witness this.

It takes a better part of an hour for Grantaire to slowly come out of his haze, but Enjolras doesn’t mind. Finally, however, Grantaire’s eyes find his, focusing slowly, and he looks wild; drunk in the best way. 

“How long have you been here? I told you, just say something.”

It’s an old argument and one Enjolras is absolutely determined not to lose. “And I told you, I don’t mind. The view is spectacular.”

“Flattery, Enjolras? I wouldn’t suspect you’d stoop so low,” he mutters and starts on cleaning up the supplies. Enjolras waits patiently; he’s been here for the rants about proper care and maintenance of art supplies, he doesn’t need a refresher. 

“Are you calling me a liar?” he asks instead, teasingly. Grantaire glances at him considering his options. 

“What if I am?”

Enjolras nods at him. There are few ways to go from this one, and some of them lead straight to the bedroom. Some of them involve him glaring sternly and end up with Grantaire on his knees, or tied to the bed. They’re all good choices, but not for tonight. 

“I love you,” he shoots back easily.

Grantaire’s eyes flicker and he shuts the supply drawer with a bit too much force. “Enjolras,” he groans and steps towards the couch, leaning over to kiss Enjolras, who reaches out and tangles his hands in Grantaire’s hair, holding him closer, making him stumble and half fall onto Enjolras. Grantaire places his hands on both sides next to Enjolras’ shoulders, keeping himself propped up. It’s considerate, like he doesn’t want to crush Enjolras with his weight, but also completely unnecessary.

It’s easily dealt with, however, and Enjolras shifts underneath him, running his fingers down Grantaire’s back and to the waistband of his jeans, and at the same time bending his knee and fitting his leg between Grantaire’s thighs. 

Easy, simple, and more than sufficient, because Grantaire groans again, deep in his throat this time, and shudders before pressing himself close against Enjolras. He nuzzles into Enjolras’ neck, his teeth grazing gently over the pulse point, and Enjolras throws his head back, baring his throat and enjoying the sensations. Grantaire’s weight on him is not uncomfortable at all; quite the opposite, it’s comforting and perfect. 

Enjolras tugs softly at Grantaire’s curls, the ones on the back of his neck. They’re longer than Grantaire usually keeps them, in dire need of a haircut but perfect for this. He tugs Grantaire upwards, to find his lips again, to lick his way into his mouth. 

Grantaire makes a pleased noise and pulls back just a little, to ask if maybe they should move this to the bedroom, but, well, this would require moving from the couch, it would require long seconds of not being wrapped up in Grantaire, not feeling him all over, hot skin and wet mouth and wandering hands. 

“I’m good here,” Enjolras mutters and bites at Grantaire’s lower lip playfully, breathes in when Grantaire exhales. “There’s no hurry,” he adds and Grantaire nods against his forehead, sighing contentedly as he settles in a little more comfortably, their kiss growing slow and lazy and careless.

It’s a few good minutes before any of them speaks again, minutes spent on the kind of kissing that is an end in itself. Grantaire’s fingers run up and down Enjolras’ jaw almost absently, caressing and scratching lightly. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I love this,” he says and bites Enjolras’ earlobe before continuing, “but if there’s no sex in store for me any time soon, I vote for ordering in some Chinese.”

“I worry about your brain processes,” Enjolras mutters and unceremoniously sticks his hand down Grantaire’s pants. Well, into his pocket, because he’s pretty sure he can feel the cellphone there, presses against his leg. He hands it over to Grantaire with a heavy sigh. “Don’t forget the egg rolls.”

Grantaire proceeds to glare at him through his entire conversation with the restaurant, probably because Enjolras sticks his hand down Grantaire’s pants, this time properly and with intent. He disconnects and drops the phone to the floor before raising his eyebrow at Enjolras.

“I thought I wasn’t getting sex?”

Enjolras shrugs. “That depends on your definition of sex, and also you might want to reconsider your verb choice. I can e-mail you that article about a performance model of sex again,” he proposes helpfully.

“Sure, go do that now, we can compare notes later, that’ll be loads of fun,” Grantaire says and sits up, straddling Enjolras’ thighs. “Break out the music improv metaphor, I have all the ‘this is my jam’ puns saved up just for you.”

“On the second thought, how about you shut up and I suck you off?” Enjolras mutters and can’t help but grin when Grantaire laughs at him. “What’s the ETA on the Chinese?”

“Long enough,” Grantaire tells him and then bites his lip, either because he’s holding back a ‘that’s what she said’ joke he knows would get him an unimpressed glare, or because Enjolras works his jeans open and takes out his dick, stroking lightly. 

There are still faint marks on Grantaire’s skin that Enjolras left there yesterday, on his neck and shoulder and chest, circling his wrists right below the ink. Enjolras can’t get enough of them, never could, especially not when Grantaire wears them with pride, leaves his collar unbuttoned and rolls his sleeves up. Or like now, when he’s half naked and on top of Enjolras, moving eagerly into his touch. 

“You’ll have to move for me,” he offers and Grantaire props himself up obligingly, letting Enjolras shift from underneath him. He slides to the floor almost bonelessly, leaving Grantaire still kneeling up on the couch. The cellphone Grantaire dropped there before is digging into Enjolras’ leg now but he doesn’t care, intent on getting Grantaire’s cock into his mouth. 

He starts teasingly, licking the head and then sucking it lightly, savouring the taste and the way Grantaire shudders and clenches his fists at his sides before reaching out tentatively to burrow his fingers in Enjolras’ hair, tug gently when he’s not met with a protest. Enjolras hums encouragingly around him and then makes a sound of approval when Grantaire slides into his mouth fully. 

Enjolras has never sucked off anyone before Grantaire. He hasn’t done much of _anything_ before Grantaire; fumbling attempts at handjobs in high school that left him bored and puzzled at why people were so into the whole thing, a few hookups in college which cleared a few things up but still weren’t interesting enough to waste his otherwise valuable time on... until there was Grantaire and somehow sex became... fun and comfortable and consuming and too much and not enough...

But the point, the point here is, he can’t be quite certain if he actually likes sucking cock or is it just that everything about Grantaire is intoxicating; is this a general thing he’s into or is it just that he can’t get enough of the taste and the way Grantaire shivers and stutters and groans, the way he’s tightly controlled even as he’s shaking, his hand on Enjolras’ hair gentle as he digs the other one into his own skin, leaving crescent marks. 

He mutters out a considerate warning, but Enjolras keeps sucking him, waiting for the come to hit the back of his throat. Grantaire’s whole body arches when he comes, his skin shining with sweat. Enjolras licks him through it, until Grantaire is shivering, falling gracelessly into a pile of limbs. It’s quite a sight, and Enjolras can’t help reaching down to his own cock, stroking himself harshly into his own release, his mouth still busy on Grantaire’s spent dick. 

“Jesus fuck,” Grantaire mutters and pulls him up into a kiss that starts rough and turns gentle, saying more than they could even with their brains working properly, which they certainly aren’t right now.

Grantaire emerges from the kiss breathless and grinning, looking down at Enjolras with a gleam in his eyes. “You’re a mess,” he says, somewhat proudly. “I can’t in good conscience let you leave like this, you’ll have to put your clothes in the laundry and stay the night.”

Enjolras doesn’t point out that he had no intention of leaving to begin with, just rolls his eyes and pulls himself up, back onto the couch. Slowly, deliberately and pointedly, he wipes off his hand against Grantaire’s jeans, making him laugh even as he tries to work up a glare. 

“Hey, remember when we first met and I thought you had a giant stick up your ass?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Save your boner jokes for someone who’d appreciate them,” he says primly. 

“Weak, I expected at least a comment on my obsession with your ass.”

“You’re doing fine on your own here,” Enjolras informs him.

“My point is, I love you,” Grantaire says, his tone dropping to a low whisper that doesn’t at all cause Enjolras’ chest tighten with affection (it does worse things, to his chest and his heart and his stomach).

“That’s not where I thought you were going with this, we should work on your composition.”

“You’re a delight and a torment, wrapped up in one,” is what he gets for his trouble. It sounds like a compliment.

“Everything I aspire to be,” he mutters and stands up. His legs are barely shaky now, progress. “Bathroom, we don’t want to freak out another delivery guy.”

“That was all Courfeyrac’s fault and their pizza sucked anyway,” he says but follows Enjolras anyway. 

They’re not quite as efficient at clean up as they could be and it’s mostly Grantaire’s fault; he’s patently incapable of keeping his hands to himself. He tries to disguise it as washing Enjolras’ hands and his face and, perhaps most importantly, his dick, but Enjolras is not fooled in the slightest. He’s not particularly opposed to the whole thing either, to be fair. 

This means that when the doorbell sounds out, announcing the arrival of their food, Enjolras is barely presentable and Grantaire isn’t presentable at all (but he looks oh so well, so it’s another thing Enjolras won’t complain about in the slightest). 

“I’ll get it,” Enjolras mutters and Grantaire nods, reluctantly letting go of him.

“Money’s in the jar,” he says and turns on the tap, finally getting to actually cleaning himself up.

The delivery girl blinks at Enjolras in confusion, a quick look of severe disappointment flashing across her face, until she focuses on him more closely and smirks knowingly. She’s probably at least sixteen, but with the restaurant’s logo cap on her head and the band t-shirt she’s wearing, she looks maybe twelve. Enjolras draws himself up and tries to look at least semi-dignified, probably failing miserably.

He tips her outrageously, praying she won’t say whatever is on her mind that’s making her grin like that. “Thanks,” she nods. “Tell R he was right about the venue, it fucking sucked and they tried to scam us on the pay, the assholes.”

He really hopes she’s not twelve.

Enjolras nods at her numbly and closes the door on her cheery wave. “You were right about the venue,” he tells Grantaire, laying down the boxes on the coffee table. “It fucking sucked and they tried to scam them on the pay, the assholes,” he intones dryly. Grantaire rolls his eyes at him and takes out soda from the fridge, rummaging the cupboards for glasses. 

“Jeannie. She’s cool.”

“I’m pretty sure she has a crush on you,” Enjolras offers conversationally and shrugs at Grantaire’s doubtful look. “I recognise the signs.”

That startles a laugh out of Grantaire. “Don’t get me wrong, Enjolras, but you’re absolutely fucking shit at recognising the signs.”

That’s only half true, he wants to point out. True, he might have missed a couple of big clues at one point or another, but he’s well acquainted with all the signs of being infatuated with Grantaire specifically. He’s seen that, he’s been there, he _lives_ there. 

He can’t quite say that and not come off as deranged, though, so he just shrugs and drops the remaining bills back into the jar. “What is it for this month?”

“Depends. For you, every time you say ‘complacent.’”

“I don’t...”

“Yes, you do. For everyone else it’s the ‘stupid idea at four am’ jar. Courfeyrac and Bahorel are the current most generous donors,” he offers and then pauses when Enjolras walks into the small kitchen space. “What?”

Their arms brush when Enjolras shrugs and reaches to the cutlery drawer. “Fork.”

“They provide chopsticks.”

“Not everyone has your skills,” Enjolras points out.

Grantaire nods mournfully. “Excellent point,” he all but purrs when Enjolras moves to stand behind him, his left arm loosely wrapped around Grantaire’s waist, and rests his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire bows his head obligingly, allowing Enjolras to nose at his neck. “Mhm, food first, then we’ll talk,” he says.

“I’m pretty sure there won’t be much talking involved.”

“Even better.”

***

Enjolras might not be a morning person, but it’s still damn near impossible to wake up before him. He groans and grumbles but gets up on time, and that time is usually at the crack of dawn because he has _matters to take care of_.

Grantaire asked him a few times if that’s an euphemism for jerking off in the shower, but as you can imagine, it hasn’t ended well for him.

(Except that one time. That time was awesome.)

So he thrills a little at waking up before Enjolras now and not even the fact that Enjolras made a pillow out of his arm and said arm has fallen asleep can ruin this. Not even the fact that Enjolras drools a bit.

It’s endearing. It’s a serious fucking problem; the fact that there’s pretty much nothing his boyfriend can do that’s unattractive. You learn to live with it, Grantaire has figured, you accept it and push down the feelings of inadequacy and dread and one day you find yourself believing when he tells you he loves you, when he repeats it over and over into your skin...

Enjolras huffs out air and makes a disgruntled sound, rolling to the side. Grantaire stretches carefully and bites back his lip when the circulation comes back to his arm and it’s all pins and needles and torment. 

“R,” Enjolras mutters, shifting to get more comfortable now that his pillow of choice is gone. 

Grantaire leans down to kiss his shoulder and props himself up on his elbow for a few seconds. It’s sort of creepy and usually he leaves all the starry-eyed staring to romantics like Jehan or Marius, but sometimes it can’t be helped, really. 

Besides, Enjolras deserves to be admired and so Grantaire must shoulder some of that duty. Hard work, but someone’s gotta do it.

In all the time Grantaire has known him, Enjolras never had the grace to look his age, but he looks even younger in moments like this; all the harshness smoothened out, none of his unflinching certainty showing. He who cares for everything and everyone in every waking hour seems not to have a care in the world while asleep. It’s an illusion, but it’s a beautiful one. 

“This again?” Enjolras intones mournfully, clearly well awake now. His expression doesn’t change though, he still looks relaxed and happy when he opens his eyes. “You have a problem.”

“Ninety-nine of them, and you’re at least a couple of dozen,” Grantaire admits cheerfully. 

“Flatterer.” Enjolras rolls onto his back, studying the ceiling for a couple of moments. If Grantaire wasn’t an old hand at studying his expressions, he’d miss the shift, but it’s there; he’s still calm but the peaceful relaxation is gone, replaced by a hint of concern. 

Grantaire hates to pry, so he’s not going to ask.

He pokes Enjolras’ shoulder instead. 

“What?” Enjolras asks and Grantaire shrugs at him.

“What?” he parrots back and pokes again, making Enjolras roll his eyes but grin anyway, clearly despite himself, and then prop himself up on his elbows and crane his head to capture Grantaire’s lips in a soft kiss. “What?” Grantaire says again, much later, after he needs to pull away because the need for oxygen is still apparently a thing, who knew.

“Good morning,” Enjolras says, like he’s just decided it’s going to be. Grantaire snorts but nods anyway.

“It shall be, if my Apollo so commands.”

Enjolras looks torn between wanting to kiss him or punch him. It’s the usual reaction, it’s exactly why Grantaire persists in using the nickname, and he has no idea how Enjolras hasn’t yet figured it out. 

He takes the choice out of Enjolras’ hands and kisses him first, which ends in a drawn out make-out session and Grantaire positively dry-humping Enjolras’ thigh, because why the fuck not, it’s supposed to be a _good_ morning, he’s been informed. 

It’s all going really well until Enjolras’ cellphone blasts out the alarm and Enjolras groans and buries his face in Grantaire’s neck.

“I have a meeting with the Senator. I can’t be late,” he says with regret, and just the thought that he’s considering it, that he’d _like_ to be late if he could, is fantastic. 

Not to mention interesting. “So, that’s why the day off yesterday, huh? Is Lamarque running?”

Enjolras gets to his feet and silences his phone, his ‘press face’ already called up, expression carefully schooled down. Grantaire heard the new guy from Post describe it as inscrutable, which is absolute bullshit; Enjolras is nothing if not transparent.

Or maybe it’s just Grantaire. Or maybe it’s the fact that the new guy from Post has a hero worship thing bordering on a hard-on going on when it comes to Enjolras, Grantaire shits you not. He’d like to be shitting you on this count, because the new guy from Post is also ridiculously good looking in the quiet, nerdy, Combeferre-like way. 

But, he digresses. 

“I have no knowledge of any such decision,” Enjolras tells him and it’s all Grantaire can do not to laugh.

“Great. I was on a high school trip to the White House once, made out with Harry Brendanavich in the bathroom. I expect you to top this, pun intended.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, quite predictably, and rummages in the drawer that holds his things, fishing out clean underwear. 

“I’ve moved your clothes into the wardrobe,” Grantaire supplies helpfully. “They stopped fitting in the drawer and I thought you’d appreciate less wrinkled shirts.”

“You’re a prince among men,” Enjolras informs him flatly. “And if, and I would like to direct your attention to the hypothetical, if Senator Lamarque decides to run, she’d be doing it primarily to bring important issues to the campaign spotlight, like...”

“Go take a shower, you’re gonna be late,” Grantaire mutters. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the speech, it’s just that after all the times he got it, he can pretty much repeat it verbatim. 

“Alright,” Enjolras nods, and then hesitates in the doorway. “You coming?”

“One, I really hope this was a pun. And two, aren’t you in a hurry?”

“A little. Let’s see if I can get you off under two minutes.”

“Sucker’s bet, and _that_ pun was entirely intended, thank you very much,” Grantaire grins and he doesn’t even have to look at Enjolras to know his expression. One day he’s gonna get stuck like that, in the middle of an eyeroll and with his mouth tight because he’s trying not to smile, and what will the new guy from Post have to say about it then?

Hey, this just in (pun also intended).

He has a few more that are quite good, but Enjolras is effective in shutting him up _and_ shutting down most of his brain functions, so he saves them for later. 

They’re not quite done in two minutes, but as Enjolras usually sets up his alarm for half an hour earlier than he really needs to, they’re more than fine. Enjolras certainly doesn’t seem to mind. Grantaire sets in with the leftover Chinese to watch the show, because Enjolras getting dressed in one of his sharp suits is almost as good as him taking it off. 

He’s informed the catcalls are inappropriate and uncalled for, but sometime after Enjolras puts on his pants but before he buttons his shirt properly he stalks over and kisses Grantaire to within an inch of his life, so Grantaire is getting mixed signals here. 

He fixes Enjolras’ tie and laughs at the faces he makes; for someone who absolutely hates ties the man sure worked hard to get into a career where they’re pretty much required. He scratches gently at Enjolras’ neck and bites his jaw playfully and then yells after him to not forget to eat lunch for once.

And then Enjolras is gone and the apartment is immediately a little colder, without the fire burning. Because that’s the thing about Enjolras; no matter how relaxed or domestic he gets, he’s still sharp and bright and fills all the space. Overwhelming, in good ways and sometimes in bad, but Grantaire wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Grantaire likes solitude. Sure, there are the bad days when being on his own is the worst fucking idea ever, but those are few and far between now. Usually, he works better when he’s alone. But the first few moments after Enjolras leaves, or after Grantaire leaves him, they’re always akin to being left adrift. It’s like music he hasn’t paid attention to being abruptly turned off. 

He wonders sometimes if Enjolras notices when he's gone. Wait, he's not saying it right, of course he notices. Grantaire isn't quite as self deprecating (anymore) to doubt that. But does he feel it under his skin like this?

Yeah. He can feel the funk coming, but that can be useful right now, he has a deadline for a series of paintings for a friendly gallery downtown and this could be fueled right into that, especially with the right soundtrack. He gets right on it and almost misses Eponine's phone call, he only see the cellphone lighting up on the coffee table because he goes to invesitgate if there are any egg rolls left (there are not, obviously, Enjolras devoured them all, as he is wont to do).

"Your boyfriend's on tv," she informs him. 

"So, Lamarque's running," Grantaire mutters, even as he's fishing for the remote control under the pillows on the couch. 

"Yeah, and your bets don't count, you've had insider information."

"Sleeping with Enjolras is not insider information, that man can keep his mouth shut."

"I'm very sorry for you," Eponine quips, then helpfully supplies "CNN."

Grantaire mutters triumphantly as he discovers the remote and flips through the channels. Enjolras is indeed on his screen, in all his suited glory, though he's changed his tie for blue. Grantaire prefers him in red, but that's purely aesthetic and would probably be a faux pas under the circumstances. 

"I seriously can't believe it's the same guy I met freshman year," Eponine mutters. "You know. With the split lip and the manic glare, who yelled at you on the sidewalk? And then you dragged me to all the meetings."

"Marius," he reminds her. "Cosette." 

"Well, maybe the first few meetings," she allows. "We've all come a long way," she mutters. Grantaire missed what the anchor was saying, but Enjolras' eyebrow is way up, like he can't believe this shit. He still looks perfectly poised and polite, but Grantaire knows better.

There's a curious disconnect between this Enjolras, hands folded on the table and a carefully studied occasional smile, and the one who jerked Grantaire off in the shower this morning. Eponine is right, they've all come a long way, but that doesn't matter they've changed. 

"So, you've been suspiciously quiet for a worryingly long time," Eponine says slowly. "I've done my civic duty and notified you your boy is showing off on national television, now I'll leave you to jerk off in peace. Also, Combeferre says Musain at seven, we're celebrating."

“I’ll be there, bells on,” Grantaire assures her.

“Didn’t we talk about this? I don’t want to know more about your sex life than I already do,” she says, groaning theatrically for a good measure and disconnecting. 

Grantaire grins at the phone and flips through the channels; Enjolras is already gone on the CNN and the few other news channels he comes across show only Lamarque or are currently concerned with a different story. He picks up the phone again and fires off a smug text to Enjolras, reminding him that Grantaire knew it, then follows it with a more proper one about the meeting at Musain. He barely sends it when he gets one from Enjolras, containing the same information, so Combeferre clearly got to him first. 

_Can I call you?_ he texts, just in case Enjolras is still on camera somewhere, and his cell buzzes with incoming call almost immediately. He grins and picks up with “I knew it.”

Enjolras doesn’t make a sound, but Grantaire is pretty sure he’s eyerolling all the same. “Jar,” he says.

“What, for the ‘I knew it’?”

“I’m making my own rules,” Enjolras says breezily. He sounds high, must be the stress of the press conference and the following storm. It’s not going to ease up for months, probably, Grantaire is and isn’t looking forward to it. 

“In my defence, though, I told you she was going to run _two years ago_ , if anything I deserve a reward for my skills of foresight.”

Enjolras hums like he’s thinking it over, but then there’s someone in the background asking something and Enjolras’ voice from a slight distance, answering before he’s back, clear again. “Sorry, it’s crazy here. I’ll see you tonight?”

“Of course. I have been forbidden from wearing bells, though.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Enjolras says flatly before his voice turns softer, quieter. “I love you,” he says and Grantaire can only echo it before the line disconnects. 

He has two evening classes and smiles too much through both of them.

***

Musain has always been _their_ place, they used to gravitate there every night even when there was no official meeting, especially during the second and third year of undergrad.

It’s still the first choice venue for anything that isn’t a movie night or something bound to end in a sleepover, but it’s not as regular. In fact, once Enjolras thinks about it, the last time he’s been here must have been after Feuilly’s promotion, and that was almost a month ago. 

He’s been preoccupied, but so has everyone else. And they meet all the time, they’ve promised each other that and besides, they’re too tightly knit a group to drift apart, but it’s rarely en masse like this anymore; it’s lunches and coffees and Courfeyrac crashing on his couch and Enjolras sitting in the back of Combeferre’s class and biting his lip not to say anything and Jehan coming over to Grantaire’s place at four am to smoke on the balcony... 

But it’s still not nightly meetings at Musain and they no longer know all the staff by their first names and the waitresses no longer respond to them swarming in and taking over six tables with an eyeroll and neverending delivery of coffee. 

And yet, when he walks in now, it seems like barely anything has changed. 

Well, alright, Feuilly’s not there (he sent Enjolras a text that read _congrats, we need to talk bcause you guys have some shit ideas about foreign policy_ ), Musichetta is pregnant, and Eponine grew out her hair to fix it up in smart buns to match her business casual jackets and skirts, but it’s still them, all of them, buzzing with excitement and talking one over another and Eponine is kicking Marius under the table and Bahorel is constructing a tower out of coffee cups. There’s no way this will end well.

“Here he is,” Courfeyrac exclaims and pats the chair next to him. “Late to your own party, Enjolras, so disappointing.”

“I’m on time, you started early,” Enjolras tells him flatly and lets Courfeyrac pull him into a hug, patting his back. He reaches out to squeeze Combeferre’s shoulder as he sits down, opposite Grantaire. 

And speaking of changes, this is the best one. They’ve started at Musain, with arguments and sharp words and misunderstandings (mostly on his side, he’s aware) and they’ve grown closer here too, until Grantaire was deep under his skin. They didn’t have their first date here (they have a long standing argument about what actually was their proper first date, but neither was here) but they’ve held hands under the table and kissed right outside. 

It’s not all happy moments. All too often their arguments would tend vicious, especially before Enjolras realised why Grantaire’s mocking comments got to him so much; when he didn’t understand yet why he got so easily flustered and angry and confused. 

(“Defence mechanism,” Grantaire told him once, shrugging it off with studied ease. “You weren’t going to like me anyway, I could have just as well given you a reason.”

Grantaire is an idiot but Enjolras is an even bigger one. 

Grantaire is also a liar, because that’s not all that it was, but then again Enjolras is all too honest, all too blunt, so it evens out. That’s not quite a good thing.)

But they’re here now, with their knees bumping when Enjolras sits down and Grantaire placing his hand on the table for Enjolras to squeeze lightly and talk himself out of kissing his palm. (It’s not the in public thing, everyone here has seen them wrapped up in each other and at least four people here walked in on them having sex. It’s more that if Enjolras starts to kiss Grantaire’s skin, he won’t want to stop.)

Grantaire grins at him all too knowingly at then turns back to tease Joly about something they have apparently been discussing before Enjolras arrived. Combeferre leans in and asks Enjolras about Lamarque's views on education, and _that_ discussion gets especially heated once Eponine perches up on the table and tells them they're both privileged assholes and also incidentally full of shit. It's her favourite conversation starter. 

It's only after Bahorel yells out "citation needed" in response to something Marius said and Cosette spends five intense minutes looking up surveys done on SATs in the past twenty years that Grantaire moves his chair with a screech of its legs on the floor and steals Enjolras' coffee, volunteering his first comment of the evening. 

"You like to pretend it all matters," he says, and that is _his_ favored conversation starter, Enjolras supposes, "as if there is a slightest chance subjects like these will feature in the campaign."

"Education is consistently listed in the top issues people care about," Jehan points out and Grantaire shrugs.

"I know I'm the resident cynic, but don't tell me you all suddenly believe in polls. Of course people _care about education_ , at least while the new report is out to get the pundits in a tizzy and have them shake their heads and wring their hands. Nothing will get done and while we might get some good soundbytes from the candidates, it'll all be forgotten soon."

Enjolras' first instinct is to tell him he's wrong, this _matters_ , and he sits up in his chair in preparation for the inevitable argument, riling up for it. The flustering buzz under his skin is all too familiar, just as Grantaire's tone in his opening salvo was. This is how it usually starts, and they're both half gone before anyone realizes, lost to the flurry of back and fro and clashing words. 

He catches Grantaire's gaze, equal measure taunting and earnest, and flexes his fingers, ignoring the itching. "I see your point," he says instead of the argument he already half worded. He might be mistaken but there seems to be a lull in the conversations around him, everyone a little too quiet. "Should I tell Senator Lamarque not to bother, then, that's what you expect of me?"

Grantaire is quiet for a few long seconds, holding his gaze before he raises his cup (Enjolras' cup, the thief) and salutes him with it. "I expect you to prove me wrong, Apollo, as usual," he says smoothly, almost fondly. Enjolras can't help but smile a little at that before he turns back to Cosette and asks her about standardised tests. 

Later, when he half forgets about this exchange, Courfeyrac sits next to him and pats him on the back. "Who knew regular sex would mellow you out," he says teasingly and Enjolras regards him bemusedly. He's just been through a particularly vicious argument with Eponine about healthcare and he doesn't feel mellow at all (she hasn't threatened him once, so maybe Eponine is). 

"I don't know what you mean," he says and Courfeyrac laughs, glancing at Grantaire. Enjolras doesn't even need to follow his gaze, he knows very well where Grantaire is, taking to Marius about his new job. 

"Few years back, hell, maybe even few months back, you would have evicerated Grantaire. Gotta say, it's a good look on you. Happiness," he adds at Enjolras' raising his eyebrow questioningly. 

Enjolras wants to point out that this was a weak effort from Grantaire, not like his usual; his comments are most often disruptive and crass, the grain of helpfulness well covered with mockery. It's Grantaire's favorite brand of pigtail pulling, by his own admission (and was that a shock, at the time) designed to get a reaction out of Enjolras; this was a friendly punch in the shoulder by comparison.

But he doesn't say any of this, because Courfeyrac's wording strikes a nerve. 

Would he? Has he? There's no censure in Courfeyrac's tone, but the matter-of-factness is somehow worse, like his harshness and cutting words are an everyday occurrence, nothing to be paid attention to. 

Grantaire tilts his head at him questioningly and Enjolras calls up a reassuring smile. Grantaire clearly doesn't buy it, but nods and allows Enjolras a short reprieve.

They're not the first to leave but they still abandon their friends rather early, especially by Grantaire's standards; Enjolras has had a long day of dealing with the press and tomorrow is going to be worse. Cosette is the one to tell them to fuck off home because "no one looks good with dark circles under their eyes, not even you, Enjolras, and that shit shows on camera," and she has both the professional photographer authority _and_ he knows she can kick his ass out if he doesn't listen, so off they go. 

The night air hits them coldly; it can't be more than low 30s now, though the day was reasonably warm. Grantaire presses against him and sticks his hand into Enjolras' coat pocket unceremoniously. 

"Are you cold? Enjolras asks with concern and Grantaire shrugs.

"Not exactly toasty warm over here, but mostly I just hate to waste any occasions to cop a feel, Apollo," he says easily, then drops his tone to a conspiratorial whisper. "I also routinely pretended to be more drunk than I was," he says, like he's imparting a grave secret.

"I've noticed," Enjolras mutters, with all the surety of someone who got into the habit of counting every glass and every bottle. He's really glad he doesn't have to anymore. He puts his hand in his pocket and laces their fingers together. Grantaire's hand is ice cold. "We should get a cab," he offers and proceeds to call for one. 

Grantaire gives him a long look, humming thoughtfully. Enjolras isn't sure he likes that look. Grantaire holds off on any comments until they're in the cab, which is when he leans back against the side door and raises his eyebrows. "What is it, Apollo?"

Enjolras doesn't insult him by saying 'nothing,' even though its lingering defensively on his tongue. He shakes his head instead, hoping Grantaire would drop it, ignore it. He gets his wish, as Grantaire doesn't say anything more, but the quiet concern radiating from him is even worse. "Have I been terrible to you?"

"What the fuck are you talking about, Enjolras?" he asks and then sighs, carding his fingers through his hair. "Is this still about the thing?" he adds, glancing at the cab driver and smiling slightly, clearly amused despite himself by their chosen location for this conversation.

"No. Yes," Enjolras groans at himself in frustration. "No."

"Well, this cleared things up," Grantaire mutters and fishes out his wallet as they pull over at Enjolras' building. He takes Enjolras' hand again and doesn't look at him until they're standing in front of the door. Grantaire glances up only briefly before he finds his own key and opens up, tugging Enjolras inside. "You want to tell me what's going on with you?" he asks as they're taking off their coats. 

"No," Enjolras says and stalks over to the couch, sitting up straight and waiting for Grantaire to join him. "I've said some awful things to you."

Grantaire shrugs and sits down, his voice matter of fact when he speaks. "I asked for them, Enjolras."

"Not then. But I guess that counts, because what I said during the scene was pretty much what I said to you before, wasn't it? The words we've discussed that were devised for the sole purpose of humiliating you in the scene were all something I've said before, in earnest."

It's even worse when he says it out loud, his tone flat and alien to his own ears. He holds Grantaire's gaze because it would be cowardice to look away, and there's no censure in Grantaire's eyes, no anger. 

"That was the point," Grantaire reminds him. "Exorcising demons," he adds with a small smile and then shakes his head, reaching out for Enjolras' hand again. He turns it over, running his thumb soothingly over Enjolras' wrist, feeling his pulse under his fingertip. "You know, most of the time I was pretty good at telling what you meant and what was just your way of lashing out after I provoked you. Your harshness was often more than warranted, I can be an asshole."

"That's not the reason..."

"That's a reason. Not an excuse, maybe, but I don't blame you," he shrugs. "If we're counting all the insults hurled over the years, I have a significant tally as well. And let's not forget the fact that you disliked me at the beginning. I loved you when I said those things, what does that say about me?"

"I hurt you still. No matter what you said, I should never had responded in such ways as I did."

Grantaire smirks at him. "Don't hold yourself to impossible standards, Apollo; as you are fond of reminding me, you're only human. And you have a regrettably short fuse at times. Well, had, you got better, thank god, because that would serve you ill in your dealings with the press."

"Grantaire."

"This is your 'be serious' tone, I haven't heard it in a while. Hello, old friend," Grantaire smiles, the grin growing wider at Enjolras' eyeroll, before it softens into gentleness again. "Hadn't we agreed to let bygones be bygones? I've heard it told that in such cases as this a good memory is unpardonable."

"This is what you're going to quote at me, honestly?" Enjolras mutters, unimpressed. 

"It annoys you, so," he shrugs. "Guilty is a bad look on you, we should move on. Enjolras, it means a world to me that you clearly don't mean any of that now, to the point of regretting ever having said that. Trust that you have my forgiveness, if you need it, and that you've had it all along."

"You shouldn't," Enjolras mutters, but a great part of the weight lifts from his chest. Not all of it, yet, but enough that he can let himself kiss Grantaire's palm and smile into his skin. 

"We both know I do all the things I shouldn't," Grantaire shrugs once more and leans forward, moving swiftly to kneel in front of Enjolras, placing his hands flat on Enjolras' thighs. “We also know you love it,” he adds, looking up with his head tilted.

It’s something he certainly said before; it’s in fact one of his favourite teasing comments, whenever Enjolras complains. It’s mocking, usually, flat or sarcastic, and occasionally uncertain, like he wants you to know he’s teasing but would still appreciate reassurance. 

It’s neither of those now, his tone steady and soft, and he’s being the one assuring Enjolras. It took him awhile to get to this point, to not only understand and accept Enjolras loves him but also to speak of it freely, easily. 

“I do,” Enjolras says, running his fingers up Grantaire’s neck, to the back of it, fingertips just buried in his hair. Grantaire leans into the touch, practically nuzzling Enjolras’ palm. 

“I shouldn’t have asked for that,” Grantaire mutters and Enjolras starts shaking his head even as Grantaire continues, “it got you into this funk, Enjolras, I’m sorry.”

“This is not the lesson we’re taking from this,” Enjolras says sternly and pulls him up, back onto the couch, pressed close against him. Grantaire makes a disagreeing noise and maneuvers himself more to his liking, ending up with his head in Enjolras’ lap, looking up. He all but glares until Enjolras gives in and goes back to stroking his hair. “I wasn’t kink shaming, I...”

“I regret the day you learned what kink shaming is, I really do,” Grantaire mutters.

“The point is, you should tell me when you want to try something new. And I’ll try and do better in considering how it could wreak havoc with my issues.”

“I feel like we’ve learned a lot. Grown as people, even. It’s truly inspirational, Apollo, I need...”

“Shut up or I’ll make you,” Enjolras tells him pleasantly, tugging at his hair. Grantaire is laughing at him already, reaching up to pat his cheek. 

“Poorer incentive I’ve never seen. You’re out of luck on the shutting up front, in fact I believe you will have to take matters into your own hands, as it were, and shut me up yourself...”

Enjolras does.

***

Lamarque’s office is a flurry of activity, with people bustling around and talking animatedly on the phones. Grantaire didn’t think anyone knew how to use landlines anymore, less alone a gaggle of bright young twenty-somethings, but here they are, pens drawn and bullet points ready.

He maneuvers between the battalion of desks, clearly brought in recently and arranged in a rather haphazard manner. (They’re probably blocking the emergency exits too, Grantaire considers lodging a complaint.)

Nessa waves at him from where she’s peering over a mountain of files. Grantaire isn’t exaggerating; she’s completely obscured by them sitting at her desk unless she stands up to beckon him closer. She’s known them from way before either her or Enjolras started working for Lamarque, she used to be present at all the campus protests. 

She’s also Grantaire’s absolute favourite of Enjolras’ coworkers; she’s the only one who’s willing to cut off Enjolras’ caffeine supply if need be. She says she used to be mildly terrified of Enjolras, like most people with self preservation instincts are, but then she spent a night in a jail cell next to his and he waxed rhapsodic about Grantaire for hours and so she promptly got over it due to the level of pathetic.

Grantaire is pretty sure she’s full of shit, but it makes him smile all the same. 

“He’s locked up with the Senator. We’re considering barricading the doors so they can’t get out for at least a few hours and taking bets on who actually leaves alive,” Nessa tells him and then peers at the bag he’s holding. “Got something for me?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says conspiratorially and unloads three bags of sour Skittles and a chocolate bar on her desk. “I don’t want to interrupt...”

“No, go on, they’ll probably be glad for interruption.”

He doesn’t have to worry about it, because the door opens and Lamarque walks briskly out, quickly noticing Grantaire. “I hope you brought lunch, your young man is refusing to leave,” she offers almost fondly at Grantaire’s quiet greeting. “He took over my desk and is looking really comfortable there, so he might _never_ leave,” she adds and waves him off, walking to Nessa’s desk and asking about some report.

“If you run for office, I’m divorcing you,” Grantaire says, walking up to the desk and surveying it. There simply isn’t any space to put down the lunch bag so he drops it into Enjolras’ lap instead. 

“We’re not married yet,” Enjolras points out flatly, which is just a minor flaw in the point Grantaire is making. “Also, probably not with my record.”

“What’s a few misdemeanor charges to you?” Grantaire waves his hand dismissively and lets himself be pulled close by his wrist and kissed, Enjolras leaning back in his chair and tilting his head up to get a better angle, tangling his fingers in Grantaire’s hair. 

“Want to go out for lunch?” Enjolras asks and Grantaire gives him a long look.

“Now that’s not something I thought I’d hear from you, especially today. I brought you lunch because I was pretty sure you’ll be holed up for the entire day and maybe part of the night.”

“We’ll bring it with us, I know a good spot,” he says and well, what choice does Grantaire have but to follow?

He only asks after they’re done with the sandwiches, and the muffins Grantaire bogarted from Joly and Bousset; after Enjolras kisses lightly down his jaw and tangles their fingers together.

“Is this still about the thing?” he asks suspiciously. It’s not that Enjolras doesn’t do nice and romantic and domestic, but at this specific time Grantaire expected him to ignore everything that isn’t work and caffeine, including food and sleep and, yes, to some extent Grantaire.

“No,” Enjolras says calmly. “Yes. No.”

“That cleared things up,” Grantaire mutters again and tugs at Enjolras tie. Enjolras must have done the same thing throughout the day and it’s far from the clean and proper knot it should be. His fingers move over the silk as he untangles it and slides it off before working the top buttons of Enjolras’ shirt undone. 

Enjolras sighs contentedly, and whether it’s because he’s been freed from the silk oppression or whether it’s because of Grantaire’s touch, well, could be both. Probably is both. 

“Because I thought we’ve talked about guilt, Enjolras, and my sentiment remains the same. I can summarise for you: shove it.”

Enjolras snorts lightly and shakes his head. “It’s not guilt. I just like to see you happy,” he says quietly, ducking his head in embarrassment before he remembers himself and looks up defiantly. That’s something Grantaire always liked about him: the more embarrassed he gets, the more he’ll stare you down. “It’s all too rare. And I like to be the one who makes you happy.”

“You do, just by... you honestly don’t need to go to such lengths.”

“Are you trying to tell me having lunch with my boyfriend is a hardship?” Enjolras asks incredulously. “And everyone’s been telling _me_ to look into my priorities.”

“Be serious,” Grantaire mutters and then catches’ Enjolras amused expression and laughs startlingly, struck by the ridiculousness of it. “Yeah, okay, I’m prepared to accept the validity of your point on pleasure derived from the happiness of a loved one.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says primly.

“I’m going to remind you of this next time you indulge in workaholic tendencies.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Enjolras says and kisses the tip of his nose, not even pretending for once he meant the kiss to land someplace else. “Speaking of, I do need to be going back.”

“I’ve figured,” Grantaire nods and stills his wrist as Enjolras moves to gather up the empty food containers. “One more thing, and this is of grave importance.”

“I’m all ears.”

“This didn’t turn you off the _whole_ thing, did it?”

Enjolras smiles at him. “Whole thing? Is this the proper terminology now?”

“Do you _want me_ to start a bdsm discussion at your de facto place of work? Now, Enjolras, I know you have a thing for public displays, but this could be pushing it.”

“I do not have a thing for public displays.”

Grantaire grins. “It’s more like, you know you _shouldn’t_ have a thing for public displays, considering your line of work. And stop stalling and answer my question.”

Enjolras sighs at him, like Grantaire is being difficult. “No, Grantaire, it hasn’t.”

Grantaire hasn’t even _started_ being difficult, so he lowers his voice and leans in conspiratorially. “So if I ask you to tie me up and spank me tonight?”

“I’ll veto the spanking because if I remember correctly, you have the early workshop tomorrow morning and it’ll be useful if you could sit down,” Enjolras says, his tone flat and stern, and yeah, okay, Grantaire asked for this, he only has himself to blame for the way his jeans are getting a bit tight. “You can have a raincheck for tomorrow or come up with something else for tonight,” he says and stands up. “Send me the proposal by e-mail, I’ll reply with comments.”

Grantaire rises to his feet to and kisses him, despite the whole mild-mannered bureaucrat thing he’s trying to pull off. Okay, because of the whole thing. Hey, no regrets.

“You are insane and I love you,” he tells Enjolras, who smiles.

“I’ll see you back at home,” he says and the warmth of his parting touch lingers with Grantaire for a long while.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a 2k fluff piece about cuddling, why do this things happen to me?
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr: realitycheckbounced. Prepare for passive-aggressive tags and puns. Lots of puns.


End file.
